


every treacherous path

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Betrayal, Christmas, Friendship, Introspection, Lies, Loyalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:25:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8493343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: Bill didn’t have the heart to tell Jim that it snowed in Italy—nor remind him that London at Christmastime last year had been miserable and rainy, not a speck of snow dusting not a single street through most of December and into the new year. He chose instead to celebrate that Jim had gotten his wish granted two times over by Bill’s reckoning. This was Christmas. And there was certainly a lot of snow outside. Besides, Bill suspected Jim knew this all already and was merely cementing with words what he wanted to be true so he could then call it the truth. Better that than accept the truth as that which was actually true, spoken or not.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musamihi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/gifts).



Jim didn’t love easily, but he loved well. That was Bill’s conclusion within five minutes of meeting him and it had held up ever since. Jim was a glove that fit poorly, a gun that jammed up if it wasn’t tended to correctly, a chest shut tight with a rusting lock. If not for Bill’s experience with the twisted rat’s maze that was the Circus, he would have thought Jim the most dishonestly honest man in England. As it was, Jim was merely a mediocre liar surrounded by more self-deluded compatriots than a man could ever hope to want himself surrounded with. Jim believed himself to be honest; the rest of them _knew_ they were. Even when they lied. Sometimes they knew they were both at the same time—though how they held that contradiction straight in their heads, Bill had never guessed. They would have been better off if they admitted they were liars through and through. It was what Bill had had to do, way back when.

That was why Bill preferred Jim. Jim was a good man, a genuinely good man. The only lies in his mind were the lies he told himself. The lies he told to the world because of the work he’d chosen to do? They didn’t penetrate him. He remained uncorrupted and uncorruptable.

“Buon Natale,” Bill said, handing over a short, fat glass. It brimmed with brandy spiced against the cold by a packet of cinnamon and citrus peel and nutmeg. Some entrepreneurial soul down at the shop around the way had put it together to promote her sales and holiday cheer—in that order, Bill suspected. And in a way, it had worked. Bill, at least, had bought it on a lark. And he was certain he wasn’t the only one.

The lady must have been quite pleased with herself.

Now, though, as the delicate scent of oranges fought its way through the paint-peeling scent of the cheap liquor Bill had picked up, he was beginning to rethink that decision. The contrast threatened to turn his stomach. Next time, he’d take another route back to the house they’d chosen for this particular operation and he’d find a different shop, one with a better selection. And fewer packets of spices. They could drink like it was any other night. Bill could pretend he didn’t want to give Jim more than he had to offer.

“You don’t speak Italian,” Jim answered, affectionate, his fingers wrapping around the glass, one palm cupping it by the base. He held it as though he thought it should warm him. And well it would have if Bill was a more considerate person. It was bloody freezing in here after all. There wasn’t anything saying he couldn’t have made a toddy for the one friend he had in the world who was worth a damn.

“I could if I wanted to,” Bill said, sniffing. Then, pouting, he stared down into his own glass, the surface muddled, hazy and ugly. Perhaps it was the cinnamon that did that to it. In any case, it didn’t look very appetizing. And anyway what business did Bill have making spiced brandy? He didn’t know a damned thing about it. “I _wish_ this was Italy.”

He took the chair across from Jim’s and sipped at the concoction. The flavor was neither subtle nor particular pleasant, but it burned going down and it left heat smoldering in his stomach and for the moment it was good enough.

“Too hot,” Jim insisted, shaking his head. “It’s not right when there’s no snow at Christmas.”

Bill didn’t have the heart to tell Jim that it snowed in Italy—nor remind him that London at Christmastime last year had been miserable and rainy, not a speck of snow dusting not a single street through most of December and into the new year. He chose instead to celebrate that Jim had gotten his wish granted two times over by Bill’s reckoning. This was Christmas. And there was certainly a lot of snow outside. Besides, Bill suspected Jim knew this all already and was merely cementing with words what he wanted to be true so he could then call it the truth. Better that than accept the truth as that which was actually true, spoken or not.

It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d done that. Nor, Bill knew, would it be the last.

Bill was counting on that.

In some ways, Bill had always counted on that.

The great tragedy of Bill’s life—as Bill saw it, others might have thought differently—was that he’d managed to attract and keep the attention of England’s single most loyal citizen. He’d gained that most loyal of English subjects’ trust. And, worst of all, he _needed_ it. Needed Jim by his side. Ever trusting. Ever ready to offer his attention to Bill and Bill alone. It was as vital to him as breathing, Jim’s deep-seated belief in Bill’s goodness.

Some of their colleagues used to joke and say Jim would sell out his own mother for Queen and country. When Jim was still young, he’d joked back, telling them, “Only if she was spying for the Soviets.” They’d all then have a jolly good laugh before returning to the skulking, shady work of spycraft, doing exactly that which they all condemned in others while never once analyzing their own actions for signs of inferiority.

Bill was always left maddened by the hypocrisy of it and by the audacity of anyone daring to comment on Jim’s sense of right and wrong, like they had any right to judge.

At some point, Jim had stopped telling that joke—though their colleagues never stopped pointing out that Jim was, in the very bedrock of his being, the best of them all, and worth so much more than they ever could be. Bill had always called it professional jealousy to make himself feel better. Jim hand never called it anything at all and found nothing even slightly remarkable about it. But that was Jim. Always letting the remarkable go unremarked upon. Maybe they’d be further along if he ever spoke up.

They sat in silence for a moment, companionable and easy, as a car drove through across the slush outside; its slow progress cracked across the puddles frozen in the road’s potholes.

“Bill?” Jim asked eventually, pristine fingernails tapping against his glass.

“ _Jim_ ,” Bill answered, tone and accent momentarily matching Jim’s. He crossed his legs and peered at Jim, smiling fondly at the blush blooming across his cheeks, so unexpectedly becoming on such an otherwise masculine man. Bill didn’t usually prefer the suggestion of innocence, of shame, of embarrassment. But for Jim, he made an exception. He would continue to make exceptions for Jim until he couldn’t any longer.

Bill didn’t know what he would do at that point. He’d probably continue to make exceptions for Jim. If only in his mind.

“Maybe Italy wouldn’t be so bad.” Jim gestured at their current surroundings. Nothing special as far as Bill was concerned, just another poorly cared for apartment in the eastern bloc, as anonymous and common here as they were everywhere—even back home. The Soviet Union and the West? They weren’t so different. They wanted the same things and they used the same means to get them. “If you were there, too.”

Bill would, until his dying day, deny the lump that lodged itself in his throat at the thought of Jim and Italy and Jim enjoying himself there if only because Bill was with him.

“Why don’t I get a fire going, hmm?” Bill asked instead of letting himself wallow in what could still be. Setting his glass on the floor, he pushed himself to his feet, the chair beneath him creaking in protest. “I think it’ll be getting colder tonight. Wouldn’t want to catch a chill.” He grinned up at Jim as he poked at the log, the edges blazing red, spitting and crackling from his ministrations. “Maybe next time I can manage Italy for you since you’re so keen all of a sudden.”

 _Moscow is snowy this time of year,_ Bill thought, dangerous and wild and on the cusp of something dark and forbidden, the one avenue Bill never let himself saunter down for fear of what lay at the end of it.

Jim was incorruptible. Bill had to believe that.

But Jim might go with him; it might be the one thing he’d do. Bill could ask him. Bill could _tell_ him.

 _Telling_ was not part of the agreement. _Telling_ would earn him an ignoble death at the hands of his countrymen, grotesque and offensive, brutal and cruel. _Telling_ would get him traded—and probably he’d end up dead anyway, if more cleanly, unceremoniously so. Bill stilled, blood thundering in his ears, heart throbbing as anguish slithered, cold and prickling, through his veins. _Telling_ might be the best decision he ever made if he played his cards right.

“Let me help,” Jim said, swallowing the last of his drink, perhaps sensing something wrong in Bill’s demeanor. He crouched so very close to Bill, his breath ghosting past Bill’s ear as Bill failed to suppress a shiver. Taking the poker from Bill’s hand and stirring it in the ashes in the fireplace, he said, “Merry Christmas, Bill.”

The great triumph of Bill’s life was that Bill was everything Jim hated—and Jim loved him anyway. Loved him enough to turn a blind eye. Or loved him so much he couldn’t let himself see the truth.

“Merry Christmas, Jim,” he answered, lidding up and locking away that truth for another night, the only loving gesture Bill knew how to give in return.


End file.
